oh baby, we were born to be adored
by ifonlynotnever
Summary: AU. Wherein Stiles is a member of a boy band, they've just sold out to Lycaon Records, and everything is Scott's fault. Except for when it's Laura Hale's. (Follows "stubble", but can stand on its own.)
1. oh, we're caught in the eye of the storm

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Teen Wolf_ or its characters.**  
Characters/Pairings:** Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Danny Mahealani, Jackson Whittemore, Derek Hale, Laura Hale. Developing (and past) Derek/Stiles, one-sided Stiles/Lydia, background Scott/Allison and Jackson/Lydia.**  
Genre:** Alternate Universe (Boy Band). Angst, drama, slash.**  
Rating:** PG-13/T.**  
Word Count: **1642. **  
Summary:** AU. Wherein Stiles is a member of a boy band, they've just sold out to Lycaon Records, and everything is Scott's fault. Except for when it's Laura Hale's.

**NOTE:** This fic follows "stubble on my sticky lips" in the Celebrity series, but can stand on its own.

* * *

_**one:** oh, we're caught in the eye of the storm_

* * *

Later on, Stiles will tell everyone—and he means _everyone_, because they'll have a press conference and everything—that it was all Scott's fault. It was his idea, his decision, his desperate, undying, everlasting love for Allison Argent that got them into this.

Of course, in reality, it's just as much Stiles's fault for not reading the paper Scott handed him at six in the morning, saying, "Hey, uh, could you, y'know, sign this for me? Right here, on the line." He really should've known better, should've figured that Scott wouldn't give up so easily on the idea of switching labels, should've at least skimmed through the paper once and realized it was a freaking legal document and not an autograph for a fan or something.

(To be fair, though, it'd been _six in the morning_ at the time, and Stiles'd been up writing until four. He's not sure he wouldn't have signed it anyway, just to make Scott go away and let him sleep.)

But regardless of whose fault it _really_ is, the fact remains: After two years with Beacon Hills Entertainment, the independent record company they started with, The Beta Byte Boys have just signed with Lycaon Records.

They've totally just sold out.

* * *

"I don't get why you're so upset about this," Scott says, confusion written all over his face. "Jackson and Danny are okay with it. Finstock's okay with it. Deaton's okay with it. Harris is—well, okay, he's kinda pissed, but that's Harris. He'd be pissed anyway. But c'mon, I thought you'd be happy!"

"You did not! Or you wouldn't have had to trick me into signing the contract!" Stiles argues, throwing his hands up. Of course, they're sitting in the back row of an SUV, so his fingers end up smashing into the ceiling and _he_ ends up hissing and shaking his hands out. From the seat in front of him, Jackson snickers under his breath. Stiles ignores him. "Why would you ever think I'd be happy about it?!"

Scott shifts uncomfortably and lowers his voice. "Well, y'know. Because of Lydia?"

Which, okay, that's kind of a good point. Lydia Martin, Allison's bandmate and one of the biggest talents over at Lycaon Records. The girl Stiles has been pining after since Argent had their debut.

Also the girl who happens to be pretty obviously in love with Jackson Whittemore, co-leader of The Beta Byte Boys.

Stiles narrows his eyes at his best friend.

"Low blow," he mutters, righteously justified when Scott cringes. "Also, so not the real reason, I can tell. You're like the worst liar ever, dude, and even if you weren't, I've known you forever."

Scott fidgets, but says nothing.

"I'm going to find out sooner or later, McCall," Stiles tells him, trying his very hardest to sound ominous and threatening and intimidating and all-knowing.

It definitely falls flat, though, going by the twitch that develops at the corner of Danny's mouth, and the fact that Scott refuses to say anything for the rest of the ride.

* * *

It's not until they pull up in front of Hale Tower (which, Jesus _Christ_, is freaking massive and there is no _way_ that all of those floors are for Lycaon Records, there is just no way) that it finally clicks for Stiles. How the hell could he not have put it together?

Lycaon Records. Hale Tower. _Hale_ Tower. As in Peter Hale, ex-CEO of Lycaon. And Laura Hale, Grammy-winning producer and current CEO of Lycaon. And Derek Hale, former lead singer of The Pack, the band that only influenced an _entire decade of pop music_.

Derek freaking Hale, who is for some unknown reason standing outside the building in his trademark leather jacket and black jeans, his hands in his pockets and his mouth turned down in a scowl, waiting—

Waiting for—

"Oh my _god_," Stiles blurts out. "What—No. Scott, I am going to kill you. With, like, knives and poison and tasers and—and other stuff I'll think of later, oh my god, I can't believe—what the hell. What. The. Hell."

"Uh, yeah," Scott replies, clearing his throat. "Surprise?"

* * *

The thing is, Stiles doesn't really expect anything from Derek Hale. He doesn't expect a smile, he doesn't expect a kiss, he doesn't expect an appreciative look, he doesn't even expect recognition, really.

A year ago, he'd just been some anonymous kid in a club. The room had been dark, and he'd only just started to grow out his hair, and he's never been gorgeous, never been unforgettable, never been anywhere near Derek Hale's league. It'd been luck and coincidence that they'd ended up pressed together on the dancefloor, not design. And what are three dances and a seriously filthy kiss in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Not much. Stiles is a realist.

So it shouldn't hurt when Derek's eyes slide right over Stiles and focus on Scott, or when he grunts out, "You're late. Laura's been waiting," before turning on his heel and leading them inside.

But it does.

* * *

Laura Hale's office is located on the thirty-fifth floor of Hale Tower, so it's hard to say what the more excruciatingly awkward part of this entire ordeal is: being crammed into an elevator with his bandmates, their manager, _Derek Hale_, and seven other people; or the worried, apologetic looks Scott keeps shooting him over Danny's shoulder.

Or maybe it's neither. Maybe it's the fact that there's a warm line all down the left side of Stiles's back, and it's there because Derek Hale is pressed against him.

Once, this would've been a highlight of Stiles's life. Once, this would've been welcome, would've fried his brain with the level of awesome, would've made him made him laugh or smile or—

But this is now. And now, it just makes Stiles feel forgettable and awkward and stupid and. Just. Not good. He shifts closer to Danny, throws an arm around Jackson (who scowls, but doesn't shake him off, _thank you Jesus_), and starts chattering about fancy-ass elevators and being in the big leagues now. The usual Word Vomit Distraction Tactic™.

He absolutely does not breathe a relieved sigh when the elevator doors finally open on the thirty-fifth floor.

* * *

Stiles has never met Laura Hale before, but he's seen her on TV. At the Grammys, for instance. Where she won a Grammy. Which is sitting on her desk.

_Right in front of Stiles._

And oh. Oh, _man_, he wants to touch it. Just once. Just a little fondle. A tiny stroke. Because this might be the only opportunity he ever has to—

"Touch it and I castrate you," Laura snaps, and Stiles startles, jerking back in his seat and mentally scrabbling for an excuse, something, anything. Before he can so much as open his mouth, though, she continues, "I mean it, Derek. Next time you lay a finger on that painting, I will drug you, cut off your balls, and feed them to the dogs."

Across the room, Derek stands in front of a massive oil painting done in shades of black and gray and pearly white. At his sister's threat, Derek slowly pulls his hand back and steps away, surprisingly docile.

Laura, in response, bares her teeth in something that only vaguely resembles an abstract approximation of a smile.

It is possibly the single most frightening expression Stiles has ever seen in his life, and he hopes to god she never turns it on him.

Apparently, Scott finds it just as unnerving, because he clears his throat nervously. "So, uh—" he begins, but Laura cuts him off immediately.

"Shut up and listen. I'm a busy woman, and I wouldn't normally meet face-to-face with the new talent—let alone new talent that's mediocre at best—until they've gotten a few hit singles under their collective belt. Even then, I'm not sure I'd care enough to spend more than a few minutes with them. But here I am. Meeting with you four. What does that tell you about your position here?"

"That you like us?" Scott responds tentatively, just as Jackson says, "That we're not actually mediocre," and Danny goes, "That we have potential to be better."

All of which are perfectly valid, perfectly possible reasons, except that Stiles has an overactive, paranoid brain, and he's kind of been putting things together ever since they stopped in front of Hale Tower, and—

And—

"Oh my god," he blurts out, and suddenly everyone's eyes snap to him, and he kind of wants to shut up, only his mouth has other plans. "Oh my fucking _god_, are you serious? Are you—? Is that why he—? That's crazy, though, right, I'm totally delusional, there's no way—"

"There's no way what, Stiles?" Laura cuts in, and against all odds, she isn't glaring or pissed off or impatient, the way most people are when Stiles starts spazzing out and forgetting how to end sentences. If anything, she seems... amused. Indulgent, maybe. Like she'd expected something from Stiles, and he'd delivered, which is—if it's true, then it's really, seriously flattering.

So Stiles swallows nervously and, ignoring the stare he can feel boring into the back of his head, replies, "There's no way you'd give us to—to your brother to produce."

Because there really is no way. It'd be Derek's first time as a producer, and The Beta Byte Boys are really not as big as they like to pretend they are. Stiles is a realist, he is, and he knows that as boy bands go, they're very much on the mediocre end of the scale. The idea is ridiculous and stupid and definitely not wishful thinking at all.

Except that Laura smiles, actually smiles, her green eyes gleaming mischievously and her red lips twisting as she says, "Got it in one. Give the boy a cigar."

Oh.

Oh. Crap.

* * *

**Notes:** Whoops. This was meant to be up waaay sooner. The second chapter is already up on AO3, and I'm writing the third chapter, so. Yep.

Er, also. Title of the fic comes from "Adored", by The Bravery; title of the chapter comes from "Unbreakable", by Westlife. Shuddup.


	2. every time i try to rise above

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Teen Wolf_ or its characters.**  
Chapter Summary: **Jackson bitches, Danny abandons peace-keeping duties, Stiles writes, and Scott explains. And Finstock is the worst manager _ever_.

* * *

_**two:**__ every time i try to rise above_

* * *

Two hours later, they're back in the SUV, which is stonily silent up until Scott tries a weak, "So, I thought that went pretty well."

Danny—wonderful, let-it-go-because-it's-not-worth-the-anger Danny—turns in his seat, looks Scott dead in the eye, and says, "In about three seconds, Jackson is going to start hitting you, and I'm not going to stop him."

Oh, _burn_.

Scott stares at him. "What are you ta—Ow! Seriously? _Ow_, Jesus, stop that! Jackson! Stiles, help—"

Stiles crosses his arms and leans out of the way of Jackson's slap-attacks. "Dude, this is all your fault and you totally deserve it. Plus it's not like he's actually causing any permanent damage."

"Stiles!" Scott practically crawls into his lap trying to escape Jackson's wrath. "It really wasn't—OW! Danny, what the hell?! You're supposed to be the non-violent one!"

"You think that _went pretty well_?" Jackson snarls, still flailing over the top of the seat to get at Scott. "She ate us alive, McCall!"

"Hey, you're the co-leader! It's at least half your fault!"

"This was your idea!"

"Yeah, but you agreed!"

"Don't try and—"

An ear-piercing whistle from the front of the car cuts off whatever Jackson is about to say next.

"Hey, idiots!" Finstock barks into the sudden silence. "Much as I love dramatic in-fighting between captains, I'm gonna have to ask you to settle down and shut up before we get pulled over. I don't want another Greenberg Situation, hear me?"

Stiles shudders involuntarily. _No one_ wants another Greenberg Situation. Just the reminder of it is enough to make Scott clamber out of Stiles's lap and Jackson sink back down next to Danny, muttering under his breath.

"I'll be honest with you guys, though," their manager continues once they're all settled, "that Hale woman is one piece of work, and I wasn't even allowed into that meeting. Seriously, I don't think I would've gotten out of there with my one remaining testicle still attached."

* * *

Much as Stiles really, really, _really_ hates to say it, Jackson is right. Laura Hale eats them alive, and not in a fun way. No, it's more like something off the Discovery Channel, with a predator that just totally mauls some poor, defenseless animal and leaves its bones and any undesirable organs by the side of the road as some kind of sick warning to other animals to get the hell out of there.

Like that. Except outside Laura Hale's office, not by the side of the road. Obviously.

And it takes an hour. One. Sixty minutes in which she rips apart their image, their name, their music, their choreography, their freaking hairstyles—god, their everything. They can't even respond, because every time one of them—usually Stiles—tries, she unleashes a verbal flaying.

It's not fun.

(Even less fun, at least for Stiles, is the fact that Derek is there to witness it. Silently. Broodingly. From a corner of the room. Like the goddamn _Batman_ or something.)

Okay, so it's not the worst meeting they've ever had as a band. Scott doesn't sign any shady contracts with pseudo-Mafia bosses or anything, Jackson doesn't piss Laura off in that extra-special way he has with women who aren't twelve-year-old fans, Danny doesn't run into any of his disturbing-yet-powerful exes, and Stiles... can't get a word in edgewise, so that take care of any potential disasters on his end.

So maybe it isn't a fiasco in the traditional sense. Emotionally, though? For their collective self-esteem? By the time they get back to the house, the SUV is basically a roiling mass of depressing self-hatred.

* * *

The Beta Byte Boys have a house they stay in whenever they're in the city—which, lately, is pretty much always. It's a pretty nice house, too. It's got three stories plus a basement and an attic, a huge yard, a state-of-the-art kitchen, a fully-equipped game room, en-suite bathrooms... Stiles kind of loves it.

(Of course, Jackson—whose parents bought it for the band when they first signed with Beacon Hills—calls it The Bungalow, and sort of sneers when everyone else calls it the Beta Mansion. He's an obnoxious rich boy like that.)

Right now, what Stiles loves the most about it is the fact that the basement has two soundproofed rooms where he can sit and sulk in peace.

Except that sulking gets boring when there's no one there to cajole him out of it, so about ten minutes after he shuts the door behind him, Stiles finds himself grabbing a notebook and a pencil from the bookcase in the corner. He hesitates for a moment—_and don't get me started on the triteness of those lyrics, please,_ says Laura Hale's voice in his head—before exhaling noisily and plopping down on the floor, his back against the hard side of the bookcase.

He writes.

* * *

For Stiles, writing is stress-relief. It's easy. It's something the others can't do. Stiles knows his voice isn't as good as Jackson's, he's pretty sure he doesn't have Scott's charisma, and he's been outright banned from trying to imitate Danny's dance moves. But writing? Writing is his _thing_. He can get lost in it.

So he does. He writes and writes, switches from pencil to ink, fills up pages and pages with an untidy scrawl that ignores margins. Everything that pops into his head, he jots it down. Ridiculous things, angry things, maudlin things, sappy things, serious things—he writes.

(They're not lyrics yet, because that's not how Stiles rolls. Later, he'll read it all over, he'll piece things together, he'll take snippets from this page and mix them up with phrases on that page. Maybe he'll get a song, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll get an ode to green vegetables. _Again._ His brain is funny like that.)

He writes and writes and he only stops when Scott tentatively pokes his head into the room and clears his throat.

"Stiles, you okay?" he asks.

Stiles blinks, momentarily disoriented. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. I guess? Just, y'know. Words. Writing."

Scott smiles, one corner of his mouth going higher up than the other. "Yeah, we figured. You hungry?"

"Uh... Yeah, actually. Whoa, yeah. Dude, can you hear that? You can, can't you. That's my _stomach_. My stomach is flipping out, man, how long have I been down here?"

"A couple hours, I guess?" Scott tips his head to the side, thinking. "I mean, we got back at, like, eleven? And it's five now, so."

"_What_." That's... not a record, exactly, because there was that one time when he accidentally double-dosed on the Adderall (totally not his fault that he fell asleep right after the first dose and thought it'd been a dream when he'd woken up again) and washed it down with a bottle of 5-Hour Energy, but it's still damn impressive.

"Yeah, I mean. We kind of thought you'd come back up when you got hungry, but then you didn't show for lunch, so we sort of thought you might be all..." Scott motions vaguely at his head.

"Stuck in my own brain?" It's a thing that happens to Stiles. They're all used to it by now.

"Pretty much." Scott shrugs. "Anyway. Pizza?"

"How is that even a question?" Stiles scoffs. "Gonna need a little help getting up, though, buddy. I'm pretty sure my ass fell asleep."

* * *

It's not until they've made their way up to the living room that Stiles remembers he's supposed to be pissed at his best friend, and it's only because Jackson takes one look at their arms around each other's shoulders and says, "Really, Stilinski? Already?"

Oh. Right.

"I'm still pissed at him!" he protests weakly. "We're just at a ceasefire for the pizza, because seriously, man, we're totally gonna be battling over who gets the last pepperoni slice anyway, and that's like fighting a war on two fronts, which is just overkill. One hostile conflict at a—Dude, don't just walk away in the middle of a—Okay, then. Seriously? Who let him in the band in the first place?"

Scott shrugs from under Stiles's arm. "Technically, I think he let _us_ in."

Stiles grimaces. "Shut up, I'm pissed at you."

"But you just said—!"

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, let's get some pizza before Jackson stuffs his face."

"No, Stiles—" Scott grabs his shoulder and spins him around. "Hold on a minute, okay? I wanna talk."

"About what? There's nothing to talk about, nothing. We're cool, I was just messing around, I'm not actually pissed," Stiles babbles, trying to twist out of his best friend's grip. "Let's go! There's pizza—"

_"Stiles."_

Ugh. There's that Look on Scott's face. The one with the pout and the eyebrows and the—_ugh_—the puppy dog eyes.

"Crap," Stiles mutters. "Fine! Fine, we can talk."

Scott exhales, smiling. "Okay, so, um. About the label-switching idea. I mean, you were right, I was mostly thinking about Allison. And I'm not gonna lie, I kind of... I thought maybe you'd be okay with it because of Derek, 'cause I know how much you're into him—"

"I'm not into him! It was one night, which, by the way, he didn't even remem—"

"—even though I totally don't get why, but those aren't the only reasons. Really." Scott bites his lip, eyes wide and earnest. "I thought about it really hard, y'know? Because I love Beacon Hills, I do. But it's a small label. So I thought, if we wanna get big, we've gotta move. That's the only way we'll survive.

"And I didn't just go to Lycaon. I didn't even think they'd sign us! But Deaton said I should give it a try, so I did, but I also went to Archangel and Proclus and SHIELD. And then..." Scott gives a helpless little shrug.

"And then Lycaon ended up signing us," Stiles finishes for him resignedly.

"But you're still not happy about it. I don't get it, man, I tried to think like you and everything. I don't think it's just about Derek, either. So what?"

_So we're going to get big, and you don't see how that's going to change everything. It's going to change us, as a group. As people. We're going to change, and I don't like that,_ thinks Stiles, but it's not something he can say aloud.

"No, it's not—I'm happy, Scott," he says instead. "I am. It's just... a lot, y'know? A lot to process, 'cause I mean, dude, you actually thought this through, that's like some kind of miracle, right? I'm happy about it, I promise."

The grin he gets in return is a little hesitant around the edges, but mostly relieved. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Stiles slings his arm back around his best friend's shoulders. "We're good."

They have to be.

* * *

**Notes:** Aaaah, I totally forgot to post this! Never fear, though. Chapter three will be up sometime this week.

Chapter title from "Drowning", by the Backstreet Boys. Because it's appropriate.

Thank you for reading!


	3. what we're doing is not a trend

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Teen Wolf_ or its characters.**  
Chapter Summary: **Stiles gets his press conference, but things, as per the usual for The Beta Byte Boys, go awry. Luckily, Finstock is there to save the day. Sort of. (Not really.)

* * *

_**three:**__ what we're doing is not a trend_

* * *

Stiles is not entirely sure why he—or anyone else—ever thought it would be awesome to have a press conference announcing the Beta Byte Boys' shift to Lycaon.

Because it's not.

It's straight-up the worst idea anyone has ever had in the history of _ever_, and that includes the Halloween concert they had where they accidentally-on-purpose ruined the (eye-searingly hideous) Harris-approved costumes they were _supposed_ to wear, in favor of hand-making new costumes. _For each other._

(The only reason why Stiles hasn't erased the entire be-sequined, bedazzled debacle from his mind is because he never wants to forget the look on Jackson's face when Danny handed over the skin-tight lizard suit, complete with a remote-control tail. It's a memory that keeps Stiles warm on cold, sleepless, lonely nights. Like, _Maybe I don't have a significant other, but at least I have never had to dance around on stage in scaly spandex while my best friend cackled in the background and directed a tech to make my animatronic tail smack me in the face._)

Stiles isn't expecting it to be a big deal, really. He's pretty sure that it's just going to be a quick little sit-down with some of the media, maybe about an hour of dodging awkward questions and giving round-about answers and laughing at ridiculous rumors. He's sure that it's only going to be the four of them and one of Laura's PR people, with Finstock sweating and swearing off on the sidelines, where he's been relegated ever since the "cream cheese" disaster last year. Yeah, they're the Beta Byte Boys, and yeah, it's Lycaon, but it's been a while since their last album and they haven't been on tour in three months. Plus, label-switching? Not really a huge deal. Stiles doesn't think there's going to be a whole lot of hoopla.

He's dead wrong.

* * *

It starts with Laura. Specifically, it starts with Laura storming into the little room adjoined to the conference hall an hour before they're set to begin, hauling her brother in behind her with an iron grip on the back of his neck. It would probably look comical, but Laura's expression is _terrifying_ and incredibly effective at turning Stiles's nervous giggle into a choked-off squeak.

"Here," she snaps, and shoves Derek—whose resentful glare has a decidedly sheepish cast to it—at Scott. "This is yours. Keep him somewhere out of sight, but make sure he doesn't escape."

"Laura," the producer starts, voice low. Distractedly, Stiles notices that he's dressed up in an impeccably-tailored charcoal suit, the top button on his blue (Dark blue, like azure, maybe? Or cobalt? Something like that.) dress shirt undone. The effect is—nice. Just. Yeah. Very. Very nice.

"Don't even start," says Laura warningly. "Go. Sulk in a corner or whatever, just get your bitchery out of my face, Derek. Now."

Derek's jaw clenches, but jerks his head at Scott, turns on his heel, and stalks over to where Jackson and Danny are pretending not to eavesdrop. Laura watches them go, then abruptly whirls on Stiles. _Stiles_, who tries valiantly not to shrink away from her intense eyeballing, and probably fails. "You. Stilinski. You're in charge of my brother."

Stiles gapes. "I—Yeah, uh. That's not really such a good idea? So, uh. I'm going to have to decline that whole responsibility. Because reasons." Reasons which Stiles will never enumerate, especially not to Derek's sister. "But thanks!"

Laura's eyes narrow. "See, that's funny, because you think you actually have the option to decline. Guess what? You don't."

Stiles was afraid of that.

"Now listen," she continues. "He's next to you, at the very end of the table. You are his babysitter. You do not let him talk. Not one word. He's supposed to sit there and look broody and mysterious. Kick him if he so much as opens his mouth. _Especially_ if he starts smiling like a serial killer. This is your responsibility and I will make your life a living hell if you fail to carry it through. Understood?"

Stiles swallows. God, he hates _everything_ right now. "Underst—No, wait, but what about direct questions?" he asks. Then, as an afterthought: "Also, why me? Danny would be a better choice. So much better."

(He doesn't ask, _And why is he even here?_ because he pretty much knows already. They've switched to Lycaon, ex-hermit Derek Hale is their producer, and the universe hates Stiles. Hence: this.)

"Can't help the direct questions. Just make sure he stays succinct." A grimace tightens Laura's mouth. "And I've seen your old interviews. I'm choosing you because I figure that if you're paying attention to shutting _him_ up, you won't be so inclined to talk yourself."

"Harsh," Stiles mutters, mostly to himself.

"Just do it," says Laura, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'd be here myself, but I've got—things."

She looks exhausted, Stiles notes, kind of weighed-down. Not in her face, really; she's as perfectly made-up as always, though Stiles can sort of see where the foundation was applied thicker beneath her eyes to hide dark circles. No, it's more in her body, in the slump of her shoulders and the slight bend in her spine.

So Stiles, because he's a little bit of a sucker, says, "Yeah, okay. You can count on me, boss!" and gives her his most reassuring smile. She doesn't look much convinced, though he does catch the wry twist of her lips as she brushes past him on her way to Finstock.

This is going to suck.

* * *

The next indication that things are not going to go the way Stiles expects comes when The Beta Byte Boys make their entrance into the conference hall and are immediately blinded by flashbulbs.

"Holy _crap_," Scott mutters, stumbling almost imperceptibly back into Stiles. "Dude, were you expecting this many people?"

"Um," Stiles says from behind the smile he's pasted on his face. "Definitely not."

The room is full. Like, fire hazard full. Crowded. Cramped. Claustrophobic. The air buzzes with low murmurs. Stiles stares at the crowd, blinking away the spots in his vision as best he can, and wonders if the _entire_ media is here. He recognizes a few people, like Diana, who moderates the biggest of their unofficial fansites, and Kevin, who interviewed them for _Entertainment Insider_ a few months ago and asked them the most inane questions ever. Mostly, though? Stiles can't even begin to guess who these people are, where the hell they're from, and why they'd care enough to come.

By the time they step up to the raised platform (not quite a stage, not to pop stars like the Betas) at the front of the room, the noise starts to die down, and the crowd starts to settle. Seats are taken and cameras are lowered. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

Except that then Derek enters the room, trailing several feet behind Stiles.

The room _explodes_.

* * *

The next few minutes are a confusing whirl of noise and activity, of flashing bulbs and jostling reporters suddenly all on their feet. Stiles is frozen mid-way up the steps to the platform, his mouth gaping in what is probably a very unattractive expression. He only moves when a warm hand—_Derek's_, he realizes, _shit, what is actually happening here_—presses between his shoulder blades and shoves, not roughly, but insistently.

Stiles trips up the last steps, managing to only cracking his knee once against the hardwood. He flails his way across the platform, slipping into the seat beside Scott. He ignores the way Derek draws out the folding chair beside him, how he slides gracefully into place at the long table, how his body is warm at Stiles's elbow, how his proximity raises goosebumps on Stiles's skin.

He ignores it, focusing instead on the clamor of the crowd.

The cacophony is still rising, but Stiles can pick out bits and pieces of things like, _Derek Hale, are you kidding me?_ and _Jesus, I thought he was dead or something and Lycaon was keeping it quiet_, and _Son of a bitch, Hale's assistant wasn't lying. It is him._

(That last one confuses Stiles. As far as he knows, Laura's been trying to keep Derek's new position quiet, and there's no way Natalia, Laura's personal assistant, would've let that spill. But maybe he heard wrong. Maybe it was a different assistant.)

The noise is reaching fever pitch, the mob mentality contagious and teetering on the brink of actually terrifying. Stiles hasn't felt this overwhelmed, this nauseatingly nervous, since the first time he stepped on stage in front of five hundred people. He's not alone, though, because when he looks to his right, at his bandmates (brothers), they're just as shaken. Scott is pale and wide-eyed as a deer in the headlights. Jackson's left eyelid is doing that not-so-hilarious-at-the-moment twitching thing. Even Danny, who's usually the steadiest of them, keeps having to paste on a smile that falls away the instant he looks back out at the cameras.

Laura's PR person, Stella, who's supposed to be moderating this thing, is trying to get everyone's attention, trying to get them under control, but she's so frazzled that she seems to have forgotten the microphone on the stage behind her and is instead yelling at the top of her lungs to "Stop! Everyone, please, calm down, this is—Calm d—Please!"

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work. Stiles doesn't want to think about what's going to happen to her when Laura finds out.

And then, just as Stiles is contemplating the possibility of just grabbing Scott and bolting for the door, an angel descends from heaven.

Sort of.

If an angel even willingly took the form of Finstock, who leaps up on stage, glances at The Beta Byte Boys with a wild look in his eye, and blows his whistle.

The effect is immediate. Cameras are fumbled or dropped, hands cover ears, swears are let loose. The room goes quiet—not silent, but quiet—as, without looking back, Finstock snaps his fingers at Danny, points to the moderator's microphone, and jerks his finger back. Danny grabs the mic and tosses it over the table and at their manager, who catches it without looking.

"This thing on?" Finstock says, and nods, satisfied, when his voice comes back over the speakers. "Good! Now, listen up, dumbasses! You're here today because the boys've got some extra-special news to break. You probably already know what it is, but guess what? You're still gonna sit there, shut up, and listen, and then wait your turn for questions afterward. 'Cause if you don't, I'll drag you outta here myself and have you do suicides." He pauses. "The running kind, not the other kind. Not that you won't want to do the other kind after you're through with the first kind. Not that I want you to do the other kind, because I don't. Most of you. That would be bad."

Now the room is silent. It usually is, after one of Finstock's... speeches.

The silence seems to wake up the moderator, though, so she marches around the table and snatches her microphone out of Finstock's hand.

Stella clears her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Finstock—"

"I prefer Coach."

"_Coach_ Finstock—"

"You can call me Cupcake, too, I wouldn't really mind."

Stiles tries not to put his head in his hands and laugh until he cries.

"_Coach Finstock_," Stella grits out, obviously still frazzled and definitely at the end of her temper. "Thank you very much for your help. I'll take over from here.

"Good morning," she says, turning her attention to the suddenly-docile crowd and ignoring the way Finstock meanders off-stage. "Thank you for coming to Lycaon Records today. We weren't expecting such an enthusiastic bunch!"

Ha. Ha. Ha. Understatement much?

"The purpose for today's press conference is twofold. First, we at Lycaon have the pleasure of announcing the signing of The Beta Byte Boys to our label. We have been following their work for several years, especially after the release of their record-breaking album, _Crosse Roads_."

Record-breaking in that it was the biggest and best-selling album in Beacon Hills Entertainment's history. Which wasn't saying much, considering the size of the label, but still. Completely awesome.

(Stiles will never forgive Jackson for the name, though. _Never_. It sounds like the title of a bad lacrosse movie, which of course meant that both Scott and Finstock loved it and Danny and Stiles were left out-voted and mortified. They'd _tried_ to get Harris to force a change, but to no avail.

Freaking Harris.)

By the time Stiles tunes back in to Stella, she's started in on the second announcement.

"As I said earlier, we had two announcements today. The second relates to the man at the very end of this table, whom most of you will recognize as the wonderfully talented Derek Hale." The buzz starts up again, but is quickly silenced by a glare from Finstock, who is still looming beside the platform. Stella clears her throat. "It is my pleasure to announce that Derek will be working with The Beta Byte Boys in his capacity as a producer at Lycaon Records. It will be his first time undertaking a solo project, but he has studied under our senior producers for the past few years. That tutelage, in addition to his own experiences as a musician, make us confident that this partnership will be nothing less than successful."

_Right_, thinks Stiles. He can't help glancing at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He's like a stone, his eyes hard and staring at the door at the back of the room. Expressionless. There's no way of knowing what's going on in his head, and Stiles hates that, hates that he can't read someone, especially when it's Derek, who danced with him and kissed him and maybe, maybe, maybe, if Scott hadn't interrupted, would've—

Stupid. It's stupid.

_Successful partnership. Right._

If that's going to be true, he needs to get over this. Fast.

* * *

**Notes:** As promised, the next chapter, within a week of the last one! Chapter title from "Pop", by *NSYNC.

The Q&A session is next! If you have a question you'd like (a reporter) to ask The Beta Byte Boys or Derek, feel free to submit it in a review. If I can, I'll work it into the chapter. If not, I'll find some other way to answer it.

Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, and followed. You're all so wonderful!


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